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On Angels and Messengers

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

A new year and I'm still here. For that, I'm grateful.
Yet, what difference does a new year make?
Every day, every hour, every minute,
every breath is a new beginning,
If I declare it to be so.
On we go.

One step into the future is a step out of the past.
But what of the moment? Where am I now?
If always coming or going,
when does a human have time for being?
When is Life?

We leave the past behind:
the celebration and the sorrow.
Memories are safe there -- nothing can hurt them.
Tomorrow has hope and fear, dreams and tears,
and maybe even glory.
Is that the real story? I don't think so.
Every story has a beginning and an ending.
That's what we remember,
but it's the middle that really matters:
where the peanut butter meets the jelly.

When I look at my hands, I can see where I am and where I have been.
I feel the roughness and the callouses, the stinging that lingers,
the wounds not quite healed.
One hand is empty - nothing to clutch, nothing to do.
The other holds a pen.
Ah! There is the moment - alive and well,
creating something, pausing, moving, stopping,
making sense out of life. So it goes.

Let the revellers toot their tin horns.
Let them have their new year. I don't care.
All I want is one more breath.